


Simply Situational

by theboule



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Porn with Feelings, Topping from the Bottom, Touch Aversion, sex potion, swamp is the worst biome change my mind, yes beta i never die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:49:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29762670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theboule/pseuds/theboule
Summary: George doesn't like being touched. Hell, he barely touches himself, barely has the urge to. But sometimes, inconvenient happenings occur. Inconvenient happenings like being hit with an incredibly unusual potion on an innocent trip to get sugarcane.(aka, the sex potion fic I wrote because there really aren't enough out there)
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 430





	Simply Situational

**Author's Note:**

> i have some quick notes before the story starts :)
> 
> 1\. this takes place in minecraft, but not the dream smp. dream's not in prison or anything. they're all just chillin.
> 
> 2\. this is technically about george and dream's characters or personas, but either way you want to read it, george and dream are both currently okay with this type of content being made about them. peep smp-boundaries on tumblr for more info about that. 
> 
> that's it, hope u like it :D

George decides he’s going to be angry at Sapnap only ten minutes after he leaves his house. 

Sure, Sapnap never outright told him he needed to go collect sugarcane and was definitely only mindlessly complaining about the absence of it in his kitchen, but he should have known George would feel obligated to get it for him. He should have anticipated that kind of overthinking from him and chimed in with some instant reassurance that he doesn’t actually care  _ that _ much. Without it, George was left to ask Dream– the  _ enabler  _ –over and over again if he should get it for him because  _ God forbid he makes a decision by himself. _

George sighs heavily and wipes a hand down his face. His satchel is cutting into his shoulder and the sun is too hot and yeah, maybe complaining to himself isn’t very productive, but he doesn’t  _ want _ to be productive. He wants to lie back in bed and be lulled to sleep by the sound of Dream talking to himself in the other room. 

A few minutes later, he reaches a swamp. It’s his least favorite biome by a long shot–something about the pungent smell and muddy brown water makes his skin crawl–but its abundance of sugarcane makes it the only option for a short trip. 

Grimacing, George begins his hunt. Thankfully, it doesn’t take long to find a large patch of sugarcane. He hacks at it with his axe and fits each stalk neatly into his bag. They aren’t as much a burden as the iron ingots he forgot to put away from his last trip, but the weight of his childish, fatigue-fueled resentment for Sapnap makes it take twice as long. 

As he cuts down the last stalk within reach, he hears a faint  _ splash _ . The sound isn’t unfamiliar in swamps, though it’s unlike the  _ squelch _ of a slime or low murmurs of cows or pigs. Its unfamiliarity creates nagging unsettlement in him, but he can ignore it. He can totally ignore it. 

_Splash._ _Splash. Splash._

Scratch that: he can totally  _ not _ ignore it. 

George squints and shakes his head in annoyance, turning around and letting his axe fall at his side. He huffs. 

“Hello?!” 

No answer. Of course. Just another  _ splash _ , this time coming from the opposite direction. 

_ I will  _ not _ play this stupid game today _ , George thinks. He huffs again and picks up his axe. It’s wet and slimy in his hand from being dropped on the dirty ground, makes him want to throw a tantrum and cry despite being twenty four years old. Stupid axe. Stupid sugarcane. Stupid- 

_ Splash. _

Unlike the others, this one is loud and echoes ominously around the swamp. He can almost feel it on him, whatever  _ it _ is, licking at the back of his neck. Biting at his ears like a mosquito would. He instinctively swats at his neck, but instead of feeling the anticipated air pass through his fingers, he touches chilled, wrinkly skin. 

His stomach drops to his toes, heart shooting up to his throat, and he swings around fiercely on his heels. There, looming over him, is a witch. Its hollow eyes are sunken and its skin sags off its bones like it melted in the swamp’s heat. The only sound it emits as it glares at him is a whistled breath through its crooked nose, but its message reads loud and clear: 

GET OUT. 

George’s stomach lurches and bile stings the back of his throat. His face numbs, blood halting sharply in his veins. His arms fold in front of him quickly, instinctively, before he drops one to dig in his bag for his actual shield– _ why don’t I carry it in my free hand? _ He makes a grim attempt at retreat, but as he shuffles backward, his feet slide out from under him in thick mud. He falls hard in the water. A sharp rock digs painfully into his tailbone and sends an unpleasant buzz rattling up his spine. 

_ Why didn’t I stay home? _

Before he can find his bearings and stand, the witch sinks its hand into its deep purple cloak and retrieves a corked bottle filled to the brim with something taunting and scarlet: a throw potion. Nothing new. Nothing any less annoying than what’s already been thrown at George today.

But just as it’s about to throw it, the witch stops and looks at the bottle. Narrows its eyes and turns it over. Its expression is one of contemplation, the exact same one Dream always wears when he goes overboard on seasoning mushroom stew and accidentally creates something unrecognizable. The comparison would be hilarious if George wasn’t frozen in fear, brain stuck on mentally preparing him for the blow that now might never come. His feet feel heavier than the iron in his bag, and at the most  _ inconvenient _ time possible!

For what feels like hours longer, the witch stares at the potion. Then it spins it in its palm, shrugs stiffly, and hurls it at George with all the speed and strength of a retired pitcher. 

Lacking the intuition to defend himself, George lays sprawled on the ground and lets the bottle explode against his chest. It bubbles against him and sinks through his shirt and into his skin immediately as it melts into his pores with majestic fluidity. Pinpricks of irritation prickle across his chest. The last of the potion fizzles into him. Instead of feeling cold like the usual poisons, though, it’s sickeningly warm. It billows out inside him like a full-body headrush.

_ I’m going to be sick, _ he thinks.  _ Can this day get any fucking worse? _

With all the strength he can muster, George wills himself to stand up and sprints away as fast as he can. 

Through the aftershocks of his mind-numbing adrenaline rush, he can’t help but wonder what the witch threw at him. Surely, he  _ should _ be in pain. It can’t be a normal poison, as he would have vomited into a bush less than a minute after it hit him and he isn’t  _ feeling _ sick. However, it can’t be a potion with any positive effects either considering all he’s feeling is hot and tense and sticky and…

Hard. 

The realization makes him stumble and almost lose his balance again. He’s hard, and not in the  _ awkward-fear-boner _ way either. No, his dick is painfully erect and throbbing in his pants and the pit of his stomach feels like it’s full of molten gold and he fucking  _ wishes _ it were poison, he really does. 

When he finally reaches his house, he scrambles through the door and opens the nearest chest. No milk.  _ Fuck. _ Heart pounding through his ribs, George tears down the hallway and to the kitchen. He opens the ice chest. No milk. He looks again, and shakes his head in exasperation. 

_ “Why the fuck are we always out of milk?” _

Without any hope of relief, George sits down on the kitchen floor and puts his head dramatically in his hands. His temples throb. 

He bites his lip and thinks, what  _ would anyone else do in this situation? _ Cry, maybe. That sounded like a perfect option. Go take a cold shower? Jerk off? 

Oh. 

George shakes his head. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” 

His walk to the bathroom is a shameful one, despite him not being particularly ashamed of anything. He just  _ doesn’t like _ masturbating. Sure, it feels good sometimes, but he usually feels like doing other things more and he’d much rather do those other things than try to jerk off to the nonexistent scenarios he can create in his head. 

He locks the bathroom door carefully and sits on the edge of the bathtub. It’s not comfortable, but his boner isn’t either and he’d much rather be rid of the latter. 

He pulls his pants and briefs down his thighs and cringes as his cock smacks his stomach. It’s already uncomfortable and he hasn’t even started yet.

The coolness of the bathtub feels exquisite against his burning skin, so he focuses on that as he wraps a tentative hand around his cock, and  _ oh _ . He bites back a yelp, fingers twitching, and wills himself to move his hand. It’s sensitive, excruciatingly so, like he’s rubbing a raw nerve. His hips jerk away automatically when he slides his fist up to the already responsive tip. 

His eyes widen.  _ Why isn’t this working? Why does it hurt so much? Why? Why? Why? _

The sound of the front door opening and closing brings him out of his panic about his dick and shoves him into the equally terrifying reality of Dream  _ finding out _ . He would never hear the end of this.  _ Ever. _

Distressed, George shoves himself back into his pants and washes his hands before hurrying out of the bathroom. He can hear Dream digging around in the living room chests.  _ Maybe, _ he thinks frantically,  _ he won’t notice. He probably won’t! What are the chances of him noticing? _

“George, you look terrible. What the fuck happened?” 

_ Fuck. _

George’s mouth opens, then closes, and opens again. He can’t tell the truth, but of-fucking- _ course _ Dream is too observant to buy into him being okay. 

“You’re gonna make fun of me,” he says. Not a good excuse, but the truth. 

Dream just shakes his head, eyes narrowed. “You look sick. Do you have a fever or something?” 

“A witch threw a potion at me. In the swamp.” 

“Oh.” 

For some reason, Dream’s look of genuine concern is almost as painful as the lighthearted teasing George was expecting. His eyes soften and George wants to scream. 

“What kind of potion?” 

George puts his face in his hands. “Not a common one, that’s for sure.” 

Astoundingly, Dream just nods, cracking a reassuring smile, and begins emptying his bag into a chest; iron, emeralds, sticks, cocoa beans, grass, a single brick. George tries to piece together Dream’s thought process while going to get iron and inevitably getting distracted, but he comes up short. 

“Just drink some milk,” he says. Hands George a stick for whatever reason and begins peeling the bark absentmindedly off the one left in his hand. 

“We don’t have any. Sapnap made that dumb cake remember? The one he’s bringing Karl?” 

Dream laughs and shakes his head. A sunny blush drowns out the freckles dusted across his cheeks. The bark on his stick is almost entirely torn off. “Do you want me to go get some? I’ll go. You just relax until I get back.” 

Without waiting for an answer, he leaves, shuts the door harder than necessary. Because he likes the way it slams, George knows, and the way it doesn’t creak as much as when it’s shut more carefully. 

George sighs. Though Dream’s absence means a lower chance of George being found out, it also means he no longer has a distraction from the ever-strengthening effects of the potion. While any other potion would be getting weaker, this one doubles in intensity in the mere minutes Dream is gone. His whole body throbs, arms visibly reddening and splotching up, and worse, his cock goes from inconveniently to  _ unbearably _ hard.

By the time Dream gets back, George is sweaty and light-headed and sensitive. He could cry–almost does–as Dream hands him a bucket of milk. Not bothering to conceal his desperation, he gulps down the milk eagerly, sets the bucket down on the floor, and waits. 

And waits. 

And waits. 

“Did it work?” 

George looks at Dream, then quickly back at the floor.  _ No, no, no, no, no. _ “Why- why didn’t it…it didn’t work,” he whispers. “Why didn’t it work?” 

Dream wrinkles his nose. “I don’t know. Just wait for it to wear off or something.” 

“It’s just getting stronger!” 

“ _ What’s _ getting stronger?”

“The effects of the potion!” 

“What are the effects? How bad could they be? You’ve been hit before, it’ll-” 

“I’m horny! That’s…the effects.” 

Oh God. 

George drops his head back down into his hands and cringes. Why did he say it like that? Why did he say it at all? He wants to dig a hole in the ground and bury himself alive. Run away and never come back. Find a different way to describe what’s happening to him that won’t make Dream… 

Laugh. 

Laugh until he can’t breathe, to be exact, until he wheezes and coughs and says,  _ “Oh, wow.” _

George’s head snaps up, cheeks tingling and mouth open incredulously. Dream is shaking his head, wiping his eyes, and fucking  _ laughing _ at him. 

“What’s so funny?” George splutters, eyes wide. Saying it only makes him laugh harder. George wants to  _ smack him _ for being so inconsiderate and insensitive and fucking  _ inept.  _

_ “I’m gonna pee, oh my God.” _

George rolls his eyes and tries to hide the quiver of deep embarrassment in his voice as he says, “Okay, this is a little excessive. It’s not that funny.” 

He doesn’t know whether to be hurt or ashamed or relieved. On one hand, he’s getting laughed at. But maybe he deserves to get laughed at. Maybe  _ he’s _ the one being a little excessive, getting all worked up about something that truly  _ isn’t a big deal. _ And maybe he should just be glad Dream isn’t as disgusted with him as he is with himself. 

Dream shakes his head and rubs his hands down his face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just…I can’t believe a witch gave you…what, viagra?” 

“Oh my God. It’s not going away! I even tried- stop laughing! I feel bad enough as it is. ” 

A cloud of heat rushes up his neck. That’s what the past ninety minutes has been: a constant wave of intolerable burning. It’s like he’s lit up inside and can’t figure out how to extinguish it. And it’s terrible. Not like Dream or Sapnap or anyone for that matter would think. It’s not a pleasant feeling, not a gateway to finding a casual hookup–George isn’t sure he even knows what a casual hookup looks like–and it  _ certainly _ isn’t viagra. 

Upon looking right at George’s face, evaluating his locked jaw and glassy eyes, Dream’s laughter dies down. George can see when he decides it’s no longer as amusing as he thought, and he wonders what took him out. If he knows it’s because George is panicking or why he’s panicking in the first place. He figures it doesn’t matter, though, as long as he doesn’t tease him. 

Dream furrows his eyebrows, the singular line on his forehead turning to three as his face scrunches up, and brings his hand to his mouth to chew on his knuckle. He hums. “Just fuckin’- jerk off or something. If it’s that bad.” 

_ Oh, it is. _

George feels himself getting red–even  _ sees _ it on his arms–and shakes his head. He feels heavy, suddenly, despite how aggressively his heart is beating. 

“I already tried that and it just hurts,” he said. He recoils a bit at how  _ open  _ and  _ honest _ he sounds, but Dream seems to react better to it than his blind panic. 

“Maybe a cold shower would help.” 

“A cold shower? Really? What am I, sixteen?” 

When Dream’s face hardens in defense of what must have been a serious suggestion, George bites his tongue and nods. “Yeah,” he says. Sour guilt fills his stomach, burns his throat. “I’ll try that.”

  
  


The cold shower feels nice on George’s overheated skin, but doesn’t feel relieving in the ways he wants it to. Even after tipping his head back and letting the cool stream hit his burning face, he’s still hard. Hard and fed-up with it. 

He wonders if Dream would have the same reaction to the potion as him or if he would have the same troubles jerking off. Although it certainly feels like touching himself would be  _ impossible, _ he’s not really sure. It could just be his own brain working against him, convincing him it hurts when it really doesn’t. 

George sighs and looks down at his dick, still agonizingly hard. He wants to touch himself more than he ever has in his life, aches for it, but he can’t push past his oversensitivity. It’s too much and too overwhelming and his pain tolerance is too goddamn  _ low. _

Tears rise up the back of his throat and sit heavily in his eyes. He wants to yell at someone or break something or hide under his bed and hope he burns to a crisp from the inside out before anyone finds him. Not only has he never had to deal with potions like the one thrown at him, but he isn’t even experienced in handling lust at all. He doesn’t just  _ get horny _ out of nowhere. He barely thinks of sexual things without his friends mentioning them first, but now the thought of anything other than coming is alarmingly bitter. Cruel.  _ Unsafe _ . He can’t stop shaking. 

Without daring a glance at himself in the mirror, George gets redressed and walks out of the bathroom, arms crossed over his chest. He hears Dream singing to himself in the kitchen, can picture him dancing along absentmindedly and, for just a moment, is filled with blinding yet contrite  _ want. _ It’s filthy and awful and puts a lump in his throat instantly. 

He needs to  _ stop. _ He needs to feel anything else. Anger, resentment, sadness, just not  _ that. _ Not that. 

Right as he’s about to slip quietly into his room, Dream stops his singing and yells, “Did that work?” 

“ _ No! _ ” 

George yells it back despite not needing to, swings his door open, and slams it shut with shaking hands. His room door doesn’t sound as good when it’s slammed as the front door.  _ Dream’s probably upset about it, _ George thinks, and bites his tongue until he tastes copper.  _ He’s not even singing anymore. Why did you do that? _

Without the shower or Dream, George is left to find comfort on his own, something he already fails at regularly. With his added problem, though, there’s no winning. He tosses and turns, clutches at his sheets hopelessly as wave after wave of unbridled arousal flows through him untouched. He sweats through his shirt and the sheets underneath him. It’s a level of discomfort unmatched by that he feels with being hugged or stepping on something wet while wearing socks. 

Fifteen minutes pass with no change, but just as he’s about to lose all hope, his door opens and Dream walks in. 

He’s folded in on himself like a child who’s been scolded and even in the dark of his room, George can see his pursed lips and uncertain eyes. When he gets to the foot of George’s bed, he holds out a tall glass of water, beaded with condensation. They were running low on ice–only had a few small shards left from their last outing–and now he’s being given the gift of cold water and he doesn’t fucking  _ deserve  _ it. 

George accepts it hesitantly and takes a sip, then a gulp, then swallows the rest at once. It’s refreshing, tastes slightly soapy and a bit like forgiveness. He wonders how well Dream washed the cup, if, after George yelled at him, he got sloppier with the rinsing. The thought makes his chest hurt. 

When he sets the glass on his bedside table and glances at Dream, he finds he’s already looking at him. Instead of shying away when he’s caught, he just looks harder, like he can see right through George. 

He cocks his head to the side. Then, “You really don’t look good.” 

George can’t help but scoff. “Well I really don’t feel fucking good either,  _ Dream. _ ” He spits his name out like gum that’s had all its flavor chewed out of it. “It feels like my dick’s gonna fall off!” 

Dream smiles, that crooked hint of amusement back at the corner of his lips, and George just might scowl to death. The thought of anyone finding the situation humorous is…well, it’s understandable. But the only way he can drown out the burning of his cheeks is by convincing himself he doesn’t care. He  _ shouldn’t _ care. He should be petty and caustic when he glares at Dream, who can’t help smiling as much as George can’t help gritting his teeth until his jaw pops, and says,  _ “It’s not funny. _ ” 

Dream’s smile falls and he nods slowly, taking George’s empty water cup back. He holds the glass at the rim–the driest part–and stares at it intently. 

“Sorry.” 

George slumps forward and winces as his dampened shirt plasters itself to his back. His cold sweat does nothing to soothe his sweltering skin, only reminds him how gross he is. How much he needs to be  _ done _ with this whole thing. 

He bites his top lip and squeezes his eyes shut. “No, it’s fine. It’s okay. I’m sorry.” 

No response. George knows he’s being stared at, knows he can’t hide his feelings from Dream any better than he can hide them from himself, and he’s so, so  _ sick _ of being hard. 

When he opens his eyes, Dream is still looking at him, though this time, his eyes dart away the minute they meet George’s. Awkward tension settles thickly in the air. The absence of Dream’s usual subconscious fidgeting presents a quietness that proves instantly to be more annoying than anything else. The urge to yell at him grows stronger, as if the yelling might make his stomach unclench and his heartbeat slow. 

George opens his mouth to satisfy that urge, but all that comes out is a feeble,  _ “Dream?” _

His voice is pathetically raspy. He sounds fucked out despite being completely and utterly the opposite. As Dream looks back at him, a rush of warmth flows down his stomach. His body begs to be touched, screams for it, and George feels pent-up tears of frustration prick at his eyes once again. 

“I’m sorry, okay?” he whispers again. “I’m just aggravated at myself, but I shouldn’t be taking it out on you like I am. I...I dunno. I really am sorry, though.” 

Dream’s face relaxes and his eyes soften. He has that look he always gets before he gives someone a reassuring hug, that  _ it’s gonna be okay _ pout. George knows if he were anyone else, Dream would be pulling him into his arms and patting his back or touching his shoulder with a firm hand. If he were Karl, he might even get a kiss on the head too. But he’s himself. He doesn’t like hugs or shoulder touches or kisses. He doesn’t like affection at all. He doesn’t want to be touched. 

The two sides of George’s brain play tug-of-war with that reality and strengthen their gripe harshly between that still being true and him desperately needing stimulation of any kind. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple at the conflict. God, he’s going to give himself a headache. 

Finally, Dream sighs deeply from his nose. “I get it. I mean, I don’t  _ quite _ get it, but I didn’t mean to laugh at you. I just don’t know what to do. I wanna help though. How can I do that?” 

_ I wanna help. _ When does he not? There always needs to be a solution with Dream. Usually, there  _ is _ one; he gets so determined to find it, he tires himself out, but he always makes sure things are okay. He’s beyond thoughtful, beyond willing, and George begs himself not to slip up and ruin everything. 

He feels all reason leave himself quickly and terrifyingly. He can hear his blood pumping in his head, torrid and frenzied, and has the sudden flagrant urge to beg for remedy. And he thinks he knows what that remedy is, wishes it were  _ anything else, _ but he can’t just not have it. He needs relief, needs rest, needs Dream to-

“Touch me.”

For a harrowing minute, there’s silence. Crickets. George can hear his heart rattling like maracas in his ears. He finally did it: he crossed a line. Violated Dream’s boundaries. He’s not going to want to live with him anymore. He’ll shout at him angrily or  _ worse _ , get awkward and silent. George doesn’t think he can take that loss. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. His throat is clogged with panic, words pushed out by the hummingbird quickness of his breaths. “I- I’m not thinking clearly right now. Don’t do that. You can go now, thanks for the water-” 

“No!” 

George looks at Dream, wide-eyed, and halts. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t the overwrought vigilance smeared across his face. Dream shakes his head and takes a step forward like he’s revving up to comfort a scared animal. George figures that’s not the farthest thing from the truth. 

“No,” Dream says again. “It’s fine, George. Don’t apologize. I can- I can do that. It’s fine.” 

He chews at his lip, eyes darting around George’s room, then back to him. He shakes his hair out of his eyes. “Do you want more water first? You’re sweaty as hell right now.” 

The pit of George’s stomach turns from weighted and icy to warm again instantly. For the first time since getting hit with the potion, the tension in his shoulders drains slightly and, better, his heart slows. Dream isn’t mad at him. George wants to jump for joy, but all he can muster is a vexed eye-roll. 

“Yeah, whatever. Thanks, I guess.”

Dream hurries away to meet his request. There’s a pep in his step as he leaves, the kind he gets when he’s given a task to complete. Nothing is busywork with him. It’s almost impressive. 

Pensive, George toys with the hem of his shirt and wonders what state of undress Dream would be expecting upon his return. Being the only one wearing  _ nothing _ seems unwarranted, but being fully clothed is confining. It should be the least of his worries in such a bizarre situation, but for some strange reason, George can’t find it in himself to be nervous. He can’t feel anything other than  _ hunger. _

  
  


When Dream gets back, George is in the midst of removing his shirt. The damp fabric sticks to his skin, cold and tacky, and his inability to take a deep breath without his stomach swooping makes it even more difficult. Thankfully, Dream is patient. He stands with the filled glass in one hand and a bottle of opalescent liquid in the other. 

George raises his eyebrows. “Really? Another potion?” 

“You’re not drinking this one. We’re just gonna use it as a lube, sort of. It’s a thick potion.” 

“God, okay, genius.” 

He accepts the water gratefully and gulps it down. Halfway through, Dream says, “Oh!” and races back out the door. George sighs into the glass and holds back a smile. 

“‘Oh’ what? Where are you going?” 

In record time, Dream returns. He’s holding a puffy white cloth, squishing it between his fists. 

“Towel. Sit up.” 

The command sends another wave of heat down George’s chest. Even though people ordering him around is usually just annoying, with Dream it feels almost comforting. More so when Dream drapes the towel across the bed like a tablecloth and smooths the edges courteously. And it’s nice, not having to do things himself, but George thinks Dream is nicer. 

Lying down on something dry instead of a pool of his own sweat is heavenly. George could moan already. His cock throbs painfully, strains against his pants like it’s trying to burst through, but what could beat the towel? 

“Fuck, that’s nice,” he says. Dream bites his lip and grins. 

“Right?” He takes the comforter off George’s bed and tosses it to the corner of the room. “Do you wanna take your pants off or should I?” 

“I dunno. You do it.” 

It seems like the right answer. Dream clambers onto the bed haphazardly and pulls at George’s pant legs one-by-one, leaving him in his briefs. They’re glued to his skin with sweat and whatever other fluids he’s exerted and it can’t be  _ that _ appealing, but when he looks up at Dream, his cheeks are flushed.

Dream pauses above him. He combs his hair up and off his forehead and curls a piece at the back around his finger. His tongue darts out and wets his lips. His gaze is still aligned with George’s dick, but his eyes are glazed over. 

George furrows his eyebrows and nudges Dream’s knee. “Dream?” 

Dream’s head snaps up. He looks like he’s been  _ caught. _

“What?” 

“ _ What? _ ” 

Even though it comes out snippy, he really hopes Dream reads it as consoling anyway. He figures he does–at least a little–because he jumps back into action immediately.

The minute he pulls his briefs off and is met with the lewd slap of his cock against his stomach, it’s immediately evident how hard he really is. Dream’s jaw drops. 

“You’re so hard, oh my God. It looks like you’re actually bleeding or something.” 

George raises his eyebrows. It should be uncomfortable, Dream staring at his dick with a level of hyperfocus only he’s capable of. It should be uncomfortable or embarrassing or anything but endearing, but that’s exactly what it is. 

“I don’t care what it looks like. Just touch me already.” 

Perking up, Dream shakes off his concentrated expression and nods determinedly. He pours some of the thick potion into his hand and mumbles, “Don’t even need the potion. R’so wet already,” rubbing his finger through the pool of precum already leaking onto his stomach. 

George’s breath hitches. He can feel himself turning more red by the minute. 

“No I’m not.” 

Dream grins and glances up at him, hand poised over his cock. “Oh, come on.” His voice is deliciously scratchy. 

Taking one last look at him, Dream grabs his cock firmly. George curls forward and hisses. It’s the same level of intensity as when he attempted to touch himself, heightened even by the fact that it’s someone else touching him, that element of anticipation and surprise. He exhales sharply and flops back onto his bed. 

Dream rubs his thumb up and around the head of his cock and George’s hips twitch away automatically. It makes Dream laugh again, benevolent and musical. 

“You alright?” 

“It’s so sensitive, it actually hurts.” 

His hand slows. He furrows his eyebrows and hums. “Okay. What if I suck you off? Would that be better?” he says. So astoundingly casual. George doesn’t remember the last time anything like  _ this _ had been casual. He thinks he likes it. 

“I dunno. You can try it.”

Once again, Dream pauses in front of his cock like he’s evaluating it, though this time he wraps his hand around the base faster. He shuffles down onto his knees, eases George’s legs further apart, and settles into the space between them with a relaxed sigh. He looks happy to start, rough features gentle and ready. It takes a weight off George’s shoulders that he couldn’t even feel before. 

George watches, tense stomach trembling, as he licks his lips and slowly takes the head into his mouth. The difference between his hand and his mouth is alarming. Night and day. What Dream initially gave him was raw and sore. Now, it’s fierce, concentrated,  _ pleasurable. _

He sinks lower, pulls up and flicks his tongue along the underside of his cock, and George’s hands fly to his hair, gripping tightly. Dream  _ moans. _ The vibrations just make George yelp and grip harder.

_ “Fuck.” _

Dream opens his mouth around him, gasps, and pulls off. “Should I keep going?” 

“Yeah. I’ll tell you if I want you to stop. Just get on with it.” 

As he latches back onto his cock, another burst of painful, itchy, burning hot pleasure hits George like a truck. All the breath is knocked out of his lungs. He whimpers, gasping shortly, and his hips pull away instinctually. 

He almost expects Dream to pull off again and ask if he’s okay, but he moves his hands–cool and dry, intoxicatingly relieving against his burning skin–to his hips and holds them gently instead. The contact is soothing in a way it shouldn’t be, usually  _ isn’t _ . The feeling of wanting him to keep touching him is so foreign, yet so  _ good. _ He grips onto it tighter than he does Dream’s hair. 

Cushioning his teeth with his tongue so they don’t scrape against his sensitive skin, Dream sinks lower, lower, until his nose is touching George’s navel. He swallows heavily around his cock and George lets out a strangled moan. Another drop of moisture falls into the pit of his collarbone. He’s not sure if it’s sweat or tears. 

“Oh my God.” 

With the blinding pleasure comes equally exuberant frustration. He feels like he’s seconds from coming, but lacking the added relief of release. Stuck in a sticky web of aching, bone-rattling bliss, unable to come. He silently begs Dream to pick up the pace and hums thankfully when he sucks lightly and begins bobbing his head on George’s cock. 

His stomach twitches again.  _ “Fuck, _ ” he whispers, high-pitched, and takes a shaky breath. Dream laps at the head of his cock, curls his free hand around the shaft, and George’s thighs snap together against Dream’s head. 

Dream chokes, squeezing his eyes shut and wrinkling his nose in amusement, and pulls off again. He takes a deep breath. “Are you trying to kill me here? Is that your plan?” 

“No. Asshole. Shut up.” 

He does. Gets back to work and sucks him off enthusiastically. Again, George feels a glorious surge of ever-intensifying pleasure. It knocks a shaky whine out of him, pushes his head back into his pillow. It feels incredible, but it’s still not enough. His heart pounds in his temples and chest and cock and Dream’s mouth is delectable and he could scream in frustration, but he can’t even raise his voice past a whisper. 

He pushes at Dream’s head weakly. “Stop for a second.” 

As Dream pulls off and rubs at his hip absentmindedly, George gulps in air like he’s starving for it. He can feel concern radiating off of Dream, concern that could never be mistaken for pity, and he shakes his head. 

“I’m okay,” George says. He rubs the sweat off his face with just-as-sweaty palms and huffs. “It’s just, I’m not- I’m not coming. I don’t know why.” 

Dream’s lips part in wonder. “Am I doing bad? No, right?” 

“What? No, you’re doing fine.” Better than fine. “It’s like…it’s like my dick isn’t working or something.”

“Oh.” He nods slowly and bites the inside of his cheek. Then, “Want me to…fuck you? Or- or is that…not…?”

_ Fuck _ sounds awkward in his mouth even though he says it all the time. His tone is decidedly  _ unsure. _

George looks at his face, earnest and so genuine it hurts, and could fucking cry. Almost does. But surely, that would be taken the wrong way. He doesn’t want to even begin to worry him. Not after he’s already done so much more than he needed to. 

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s try that.” 

Dream just nods, like he can’t hear the gratitude in George’s feeble voice even though he definitely can. “‘Kay, sick.” 

_ Sick. _ George has to stop himself from rolling his eyes, not because it could upset him but because there’s no way it wouldn’t appear more loving than the moment calls for. He’s fine with casualty, doesn’t  _ need _ an overload of affection and never has. He just can’t help but want a fraction of that. Just a little. 

George feels the first bits of cold nervousness as Dream pulls his shirt off and tosses it beside the discarded comforter. Even with his newly-found desire for tenderness, skin-on-skin contact has always been a little much for him. However, a lot of things are a little much for him and he’s done almost all of them within the last few hours. He’ll be okay. He’ll live. 

When he brings his focus back on Dream, he’s pouring more of the shimmering potion onto his fingers. He moves his head side to side subtly like he’s dancing to a song he can’t get out of his head and brings his hand down to George’s ass. 

It’s jarring. He can’t help grabbing Dream’s wrist, holding it shakily, as he processes what’s happening. 

“Wait,” he says.

Immediately, Dream stops and pulls both hands away. “What’s up?” 

George wants to tell him  _ nevermind _ and let him get started already, but even through his overbearing lust, he’s suddenly nervous. 

“I’ve just…” George grimaces and leans back on his pillow awkwardly, “not done this before.” 

The look of surprise on Dream’s face is comical. He raises his eyebrows so high they disappear past his hair. “You’re a virgin?” 

Oh God. George shakes his head disbelievingly. “No! God, I’m 24, you idiot. I’ve just not had anything…up there before?” 

He doesn’t know what he wants Dream's reaction to be, but it certainly isn’t the teasing grin he receives. “What, are you asking me or telling me?” he says. 

George smacks him, but there’s no malice to it. “Shut up! You know what I mean.” 

Dream rubs his thigh with a toothy smile and sits back on his heels. “It’s gonna feel weird at first, but it’ll probably feel good once you’ve gotten used to it. And if it doesn’t, we’ll try something else. It’ll be fine.” 

George wants to ask what else there is to try, but he can only nod nervously. Force out an,  _ “Okay,” _ so Dream knows he can go on and clench his fists in anticipation. 

All the air leaves George’s lungs when Dream rubs his middle finger against his hole and pushes the tip in slowly. It isn’t terribly uncomfortable–Dream’s fingernails are plenty short and he opted for far more lube than he really needed–but it is  _ weird. _ George winces and clutches his bed sheets tightly. 

Dream pushes his finger deeper. It feels enormous despite being shorter than George’s, intrusive in a completely unfamiliar sense, but as it goes deeper, the boiling in George’s stomach calms to a simmer. 

He can’t stop shaking. Feels pathetic because it’s not a big deal and shouldn’t affect him in the way that it is. By the time Dream’s finger is settled in all the way, he’s tense as a statue. 

“How’s that feel?” Dream says. 

“Weird.” 

“Keep going?” 

“Yes.” 

Dream pulls his finger out–an even weirder feeling–and then pushes it back in. He begins a steady rhythm–in, out, in, out–before adding a second finger alongside the first. It’s still weird, but less. 

When George relaxes back into the bed, he hums like he’s congratulating him. The subtle praise makes him keen. 

Once Dream has three fingers comfortably inside him, George feels placid and accustomed to the different sensation. Not pleasurable, but nice. A bit underwhelming, if anything. 

Then Dream crooks his fingers upward and George gasps, a jolt of electricity zapping up his stomach, through his cock.  _ Okay, maybe not underwhelming. _

Dream laughs kindly and does it again. Knows exactly where to reach to find that spot again. George wonders hazily if he got his experience from himself or other people. The latter is uninteresting to him, but picturing Dream doing to himself what he’s doing to George makes him shudder in arousal. He grits his teeth and focuses more on the feeling. 

Finally, Dream pulls his fingers out and begins taking his pants off like he did George’s, left leg, then right. Without his fingers in him, he feels remarkably empty. He groans uncomfortably and lifts his hips an inch off the bed. 

“Come  _ on _ .” 

Dream shakes his head, grinning, and pours some of the potion onto his cock. His lightly tanned chest is dusted with pink like George’s, but isn’t splotchy. He’s clear and sun-kissed. Soft. George wants to touch him. 

“I’m gonna start now, ‘kay?” 

“Yeah, go on.” George’s tongue feels awkward in his mouth. He’s so sweaty, he’s sure his deodorant is beginning to get worn out and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands and he’s so ridiculously content, it hurts. 

When Dream pushes into George, just the tip, not too quickly, George’s vision goes  _ white. _ He knows this is what the potion wanted, can feel it in the way his legs won’t stop shaking and his cock twitches against his stomach. He savors the burn of Dream inside him, pushing in deeper. His cock is a perfectly average size, but feels like a heavy intrusion the deeper he goes. His jaw drops. 

Dream has him caged in between his trembling arms. When he finally bottoms out, George lets out a breathless moan and grabs him like a lifeline. “Oh fuck.” 

“Okay?” 

“Please move, please. Fuck, Dream.” 

The fire in George’s stomach flares up, licks at his ringing ears and glossy lips. His hips lift on their own, press against Dream’s. He shivers, biting his lip, and tips his head back. 

Dream nods and slides out slowly, pushing back in with a bit more gusto. George moans brokenly and grabs his shoulders with frantic hands. The potion had to have heightened his senses, made him reactive and needy. He barely recognizes his own pleasure. 

Groaning breathily, Dream dips his head down beside George’s and sighs. He presses wet kisses to his jaw, his neck, digs his nose into his skin and fucks into him harder. The faster he goes, the more euphoric George feels, and best of all, he can tell he’s finally getting somewhere. He could cry at how red-hot and intense the pleasure is. He can’t even keep his mouth closed. 

Dream gasps upon a particularly rough thrust and licks his hand. He reaches between their bodies and grabs George’s cock in a tight fist. George bites his tongue, prepares to feel too sensitive to take it, but he isn’t. It feels so good it hurts. 

His eyes shut and he lets out a vulgar moan.  _ “Fuck.” _

Dream gasps again and says, voice quivering, “You close?” 

George tries to say something,  _ yes _ or  _ keep going _ or  _ Dream _ , but all he can do is nod erratically as he’s fucked into oblivion, cross-eyed. Short, staticked moans are punched out of him with every thrust as Dream hits his prostate effortlessly and twists his fist up and around the head of his cock. 

With a cracked whimper, he begins to boil over. Cum shoots up his stomach, up to his neck and onto Dream’s chest. It’s a violent orgasm that sends him curling forward, then arching back, babbling incoherently. The brilliant swell of pleasure in the pit of his stomach begins to disintegrate. His cock throbs in Dream’s cum-slicked hand. 

And he thinks he’ll stop coming. But he doesn’t. He  _ can’t _ . He’s wrung out and exhausted and overstimulated, but not  _ finished _ . It’s so painful he almost sobs, but he can barely breathe through his rapidly intensifying orgasm. 

He feels hot tears rolling down his cheeks and tickling his chest uncomfortably. He must be dying,  _ has  _ to be. There’s a shrill ringing in his ears and his whole body is beating like a heart. His teeth chatter. 

Dream stops  _ immediately _ . His breaths audibly quicken and he puts a hand on George’s flushed cheek. “Oh my God, are you hurt?” he whispers. His voice is all air. George can only nod, choking on his breath. 

“I’m so sorry, George, one second.” 

He nudges George’s leg to the side gently and begins pulling out. George’s body revolts. He grips Dream’s wrist tightly, hears a pop, and shakes his head. The intensity makes his head spin. 

_ “Don’t- please finish, please. You need to.” _

Dream raises an eyebrow. He looks borderline  _ offended _ . His forehead lines are back. 

“I don’t need anything, George, what-” 

“I need you to.” George gasps, gargling through another scalding hot wave of  _ too much. _ “Really. You need to.” 

Momentarily, Dream is still scrunched in confusion. Then his mouth opens in realization. “Oh my God. Hold on.” 

There’s no burn when he pushes back into George other than the excruciating one in George’s cock. His whole body trembles with want. It almost feels good, but the pleasure turns painful the second he tries to focus on it. More tears bubble up and out of his eyes. 

_ “Dream.” _

As if awakened, Dream reaches up to cradle George’s neck and face with both hands and fucks into him unsteadily. His desperation is fluid and tangible, but he’s not moaning happily like he was before. Each movement seeps with determination. 

George wants, with every fiber of his being, to get out and away from the overstimulation. It turns his face numb and his breathing frenzied. Where Dream felt satisfying before, he feels intolerable now. Every touch is agonizing. 

He can barely think as he reaches to Dream’s hair as if on command and ropes his fingers into it. It’s thick and sweaty. Fits just right in his hands. He clenches it between his fists, not hard enough to do damage but definitely enough to hurt, and Dream whimpers. 

_ “Ah! _ George!  _ Please. _ ” 

The  _ please _ is hushed, but George hears it deafeningly. Hears  _ everything. _ Dream’s quick breaths, moans, his heartbeat. He throws all caution to the wind and pulls Dream down to his lips. He kisses him. Dream comes. 

George can feel Dream’s release in him, feels him throbbing, and finally feels like he’s winding down. He unwraps his fingers from his hair and, without thinking, throws his arms up and around his neck and pulls him into a hug. 

The dam breaks. George sobs into his shoulder. 

Hugs have never felt necessary to George before, but now it’s the only thing keeping him in one piece. He feels safe under Dream’s weight as he pulls out shakily and lies on top of him. Rubs steady circles into his shoulders. Lets him lose all the composure he’s too weak to hold. His face is wet with sweat, snot, and tears and his breaths are staticked. 

It should be awkward or uncomfortable, but it isn’t. Dream’s heartbeat is sturdy against his chest and his gentle breaths fan his face. It just brings relief.  _ Dream _ brings relief. 

For what feels like hours, they lie together peacefully. George slowly deflates, emphatic sobs dissipating into choked whimpers. Dream hooks his chin over his shoulder and hums the tune of  _ “Mall” _ quietly. And it’s nice. Domestic until George realizes how sticky and gross he feels. 

Sighing, he peels himself off of Dream and hobbles across the room on wobbly legs. He pulls on a clean pair of underwear and shivers as he finally takes in the draftiness of his room. 

“I’m absolutely disgusting right now. I need to shower.” Dream looks up at him with round eyes.  _ Don’t leave me _ eyes. George doesn’t  _ want _ to leave. “But I’ll be back, alright?” 

Dream relaxes back onto George’s bed and nods. He grabs a pillow and pulls it against his chest. “Alright.” 

With that, George heads to the bathroom for his second shower of the day. Immediately upon entering, he’s met with himself in the mirror. He looks truly horrible: red, shiny, and gross. As sticky as he feels. He cringes, rubbing his hands down his face, and turns the water temperature to warm. 

As he stands under the soothing stream, he begins to think. Thinking is always dangerous for George–he gets himself carried away all too often–but he can’t help wondering what  _ Dream _ is feeling. If he regrets what they just did or thinks differently of him. He definitely thinks differently of himself, but Dream? He’s still the same. George just knows a little more about him now. 

He doesn’t rush to finish washing himself and walks back to his room, wrapped in a towel. A part of him, sickeningly insecure, expects Dream to have gone back to his room or be dressing himself frantically so he can walk out with a little more dignity. 

He’s not. He’s still in bed. Halfway, to be exact, hung over the side and wrapped in George’s thickest blanket. George stands in the doorway and bites back a smile. 

“Are you dead?” 

Dream nods, his hair flopping down and hanging over his head. “Yes.” 

“You’re such a drama queen.” 

Swinging his body forward slightly, Dream heaves back and flops successfully down onto the bed. His face is red. He smiles tiredly at George. 

“Can we move to my room? Your bed is like, drenched in sweat.” 

George gags, over-exaggerated, and leans against his bedpost, suddenly a bit self conscious about being half-naked. There’s no way Dream cares–from the looks of it, he hasn’t bothered to get dressed yet–but he’s never casually in just his underwear around anyone. 

“We?” 

Dream crosses his legs and drums a beat against the wall with his fingertips. He scoots to the edge of the bed and lets the blanket fall around his hip. “I mean,” he says, “I’m too tired to change your sheets and I wouldn’t want you to sleep on them, so it’s not the most Chad move of me, right?” 

“I don’t think you know what a Chad is.” George chews at his lip. His stomach swoops like a phantom. “Could I not just sleep on the couch?” 

“You hate the couch. You say it’s too hard.” 

_ Well played. _ He wants to say something nice and thoughtful in return or maybe ask why Dream is so insistent on sharing a bed with him, but what comes out is, “You’re unbelievable. And sweaty. Please shower.” 

Dream smacks the side of his head. It’s too gentle to even sting. 

  
  


Dream’s bed is unmade and one of his three pillows doesn’t have a pillowcase on it. George discards the pillow, shaking his head, and climbs into his bed with an air of caution. Dream wanted him to sleep in his room with him, wanted him to be comfortable, so why does he feel like he’s not supposed to be there? Or worse, like he doesn’t deserve to be. 

It’s a stupid thought, he knows, but it pries. He rests his head on Dream’s firmest pillow and sighs. Being insecure and exhausted is so much worse than insecurity alone. He shakes his head again and digs his face into the pillow. 

A minute later, he hears the shuffle of Dream’s footsteps and the low creak of his door opening. George can already smell his body wash, citrus and evergreen, but he still says, “That was a fast shower. Did you even use soap?” 

Dream yawns and pulls on a giant t-shirt with a bloodstain on the sleeve from when he tried to roll down a grassy hill– _ it’s nice grass, George, feel it! Isn’t it soft? _ –and hit a rock at the bottom. He lies down next to George and scoots a bit away, leaving a fair amount of space between them. 

“I speedran it,” he says, and smiles playfully. All George’s worry leaves at once. He can’t help being reassured by the human embodiment of comfort. 

“You’re stupid,” he whispers. Dream just laughs. 

They lie side-by-side, illuminated by moonbeams that shine on their faces through a crack in the curtains. It’s tranquil and misty, but something feels a fraction of an inch out of place. He turns toward Dream and scoots a bit closer. 

“Was that weird?” 

Dream just shrugs. “Do you think it was weird?” 

George shrugs back. “Do  _ you? _ ” 

Dream turns to face him then, closer like he’s about to tell him a secret. Warmth radiates from him through the distance, through the blanket, through his stupid shirt. 

“I mean, not really, no. It was fine. You needed help.” 

Something about his answer makes George’s chest ache, something he can’t place. Dream isn’t mad or disgusted with him. He was just helping a friend out of…what, obligation? Was it simply situational? George knows they probably wouldn’t have done what they did in normal circumstances, but if it were any of his other friends with him, he would have locked his door and suffered alone. 

He doesn’t want to touch other people and, more importantly, he doesn’t want other people to touch him. But if it was Dream…he might not mind. He’d accept his overeager hugs and maybe return them if no one else was around to stress him out. And he wouldn’t do it because he feels like he has to. 

Though he still feels the slightest bit empty, Dream looks perfectly content. He’s resting on his stomach as he always does, face mashed into his pillow, and his eyes are closed peacefully. He looks like he’s bathing in serenity. George wants to wrap around him and share it. 

It’s strange, that urge. He’s never liked cuddling, rarely feels like it even with his closest friends, but he figures he and Dream are a little more than close now. Their shared intimacy had to have made them that way, whether or not it was just out of necessity. 

He takes a deep breath and decides that it wouldn’t hurt. After all, Dream cuddles everyone.  _ He _ enjoys it. He won’t mind. 

George scoots forward, swallows the nervous lump in his throat, and drapes a tentative arm across Dream’s back. It’s not the companionable spooning Dream does with their other friends, but it’s something. It’s a start. 

For a tense moment, he thinks Dream won’t reciprocate–he looks seconds from falling asleep anyway, so it wouldn’t be too weird if he was too tired to hold him back–but then a long arm settles across his chest. With his free hand, Dream pulls his heavy blanket higher over them, still enough for George’s arm to not move. 

It’s not quite cuddling, but it’s  _ something. _ George falls asleep more comfortable than he’s felt in ages. 

When he wakes up, Dream is still there. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed this! it's the most i've written at once in so long. 
> 
> if you have any criticisms, requests for other future works, or anything else to say, leave a comment about it :) feedback of any kind fuels my manic five-hour-long-with-no-breaks writing sessions.
> 
> have a lovely day, take care of yourself, and eat some bread (unless you can't eat bread, then don't do that pls)


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